Tomato Juice

by Rowan Luis

Roma layed out the table with three plates. We stared at them awkwardly without knowing what to say, us not speaking Polish and her not speaking English. She had her head in the fridge, a large arse bobbing at us, we exchanged looks and raised our eyebrows. It’d taken over an hours walk in sweltering evening sun and swathes of midges to find her house. After wandering aimlessly we asked a passerby, who happened to be American. She’d heard of Roma and pointed us in the right direction, telling us that yes, her house is extremely hard to find because the road she lives on doesn’t officially exist any more.

Roma pointed at the large packet of pork meat retreived from the fridge. She smiled and nodded at us, showing gaps in her teeth. I shook my head, my stomach couldn't handle any meat, the local water had totally wrecked my gut. He shook his head too and said he was a vegetarian, he looked at me and said “you have to eat it, its polite”. I took a slice and she gestured for me to take more. He smugly stuck to the pickled gherkins.

All this time she sliced tomatoes into her large brown hands in a very steady rhythm. The juice soaked her dry skin and dribbled down her wrists. Every time she brought the knife down I thought she’d cut herself, but this was something she could probably do in her sleep.


Author's Note: true story that

Posted on 05/26/2011
Copyright © 2021 Rowan Luis

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